Stone Cold
by BladeoftheAngel
Summary: "Best way to not get your heart broken, is pretend you don't have one." -Charlie Sheen
1. Prologue

" _Daddy, what's down there?" The young princess asked, pointing to the series of stairs leading to the dungeon. Her father, King Lucian of Alicante, knelt down beside her._

" _Darling, that's the place where bad, bad people are locked up."_

" _Can I go see?"_

" _Clary, it's very scary down there," the King warned. He knew it would be of no use anyway. Princess Clarissa, even at age 6, was a determined little thing._

" _Please?" Clary stuck her bottom lip out, her green eyes widening. She clasped her tiny hands together, begging and pleading._

" _Oh, very well," the King sighed. He could never deny his daughter anything when she made a face like that. "Now, you mustn't go too near the bars, Clary."_

" _There are bars?" Clary frowned as she descended the stairs beside her father. At the base, two guards stood, and at seeing the King and the Princess, bowed their heads in respect._

" _Your Majesty, Your Highness."_

" _The Princess wishes to see the prisoners," the King said._

" _Of course, Your Highness," the guards bowed, chuckling softly. Everyone in the kingdom was quite fond of Clary, for they all knew she would be just as good of a ruler as King Lucian is, if not better._

" _What bad things did they do?" Clary asked curiously. They didn't look like bad people._

" _They're from Idris," the King replied. Clary's eyebrows scrunched together tightly, as if she was trying very hard to remember something._

" _Isn't that where King Valentine lives?"_

" _Yes, that's right, sweetheart," the King nodded. Clary smiled, delighted that she remembered correctly. The smile faded quickly, as she took in the huddled figures in each cell._

" _But Daddy, you want Valentine, not them. Why are they locked up?"_

" _Because they're his people," the King's eyes hardened at the mention of Valentine. Clary just shook her head._

" _I think you're being very mean, Daddy. Why are you being mean to them? You're never mean to me."_

" _It is what must be done," the King sighed heavily. Clary walked tentatively towards one of the cells. There was a small boy, maybe a year or two older than Clary, laying on the straw mattress, sleeping. She gasped at the sight of him._

" _Daddy, why is he in there?"_

" _He's Valentine's son," the King said, gently pulling Clary back from the bars. She wrenched herself free, stumbling forwards._

" _But he's so small. He's like me. What if he misses his mommy and daddy?"_

" _Clary, we are at war with Idris. Sacrifices must be made," her father reminded her. Clary refused to listen._

" _I want to talk to him," she declared._

" _Clary, you—"_

" _I want to talk to him," Clary repeated, stomping her foot for emphasis. The King drew a long breath, shaking his head in resignation._

" _Alright, alright. But only for a little while, okay?"_

" _Thank you, Daddy!" Clary threw her arms around the King's neck. Chuckling, he motioned for the guards to open the cell. The keys rattled as the door creaked open. Clary took small quiet steps, inside, as if afraid to wake the boy up. Seating herself on the straw besides him, she watched him sleep for a while, before poking his cheek. The boy stirred, rolling over. He forced his eyes to open, blinking groggily before focusing on Clary. Immediately, he sat up, scooting further into the corner. His eyes darted back and forth, as if something was going to pounce on him any second._

" _Who are you?" he growled, glaring at Clary. She paid him no mind, staring at his aureate eyes in fascination._

" _You have pretty eyes," she grinned. The boy, taken aback by her comment, didn't say anything._

" _What's your name?" Clary asked, playing with a piece of straw. The boy was silent for a moment, as if contemplating whether to answer or not. Clary, as if sensing his unease, smiled._

" _You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."_

" _Jonathan Christopher Herondale," the boy said quickly._

" _Jonathan Christopher Herondale," Clary tested the name out. Beaming, she introduced herself. "I'm Clary."_

" _Clary," Jonathan repeated, a small smile forming on his own lips._

* * *

 _Days passed into weeks, and weeks passed into months. Clary made sure she went down to the dungeons every single day to talk to Jonathan. She never got much time, her father always called her up after a while._

" _Jonathan Christopher Herondale. Jonathan Christopher Herondale. Jonathan Christopher Herondale," Clary muttered over and over under her breath. He stared at her in confusion._

" _What're you doing?"_

" _Jonathan Christopher. Jonathan Christopher... J.C.," Clary ignored him, continuing her muttering._

" _J.C…Jacie!" Clary's face broke into a broad grin. "I'm going to call you Jacie," she declared. Jonathan's nose scrunched up, his head shaking in disagreement._

" _That's too girly."_

" _It is?" Clary frowned, biting her lip. "How about Jace, then?"_

" _Hm…" Jonathan thought for a moment. "I like it."_

" _Me too," Clary nodded, giggling._

* * *

 _It was dark. Clary had never been in the dungeons when it was dark, but tonight, she had something very important to do. Creeping silently, down the steps, she inched her way past the sleeping guards. One of her hands was in her pocket, clutching a key tightly. The guards had forgotten to put it away that afternoon. Tip-toeing to where Jace was, she saw him waiting for her. He told her what to do a few days ago, and although she was sad to see him have to go, she would help him. She would help set him free. Inserting the key into the lock, she turned it as quietly as possible. Eagerly, Jace pushed the door open._

" _Jace, promise that you'll come back to—" Clary was cut off as she felt a burst of pain near her stomach. Looking down, she saw a knife protruding from her side. Her eyes followed the hilt, all the way to the small, trembling hands that were holding it, and finally, to Jace's face. His eyes were squeezed tightly, his jaw clenched._

" _I'm so, so, sorry, Clary," he whispered, tears falling from his eyes. She didn't speak. Maybe it was shock, or the overwhelming pain that prevented her from screaming, but her eyes said everything. Betrayal._

" _Why?" she choked, black spots clouding her vision. There was so much blood. Blood everywhere. Blood on her dress, blood on the knife, blood on Jace's hands. Her knees buckled, and with a small whimper, Clary fell onto the floor surrounded by a puddle of red, darker than her hair. Jace stared at his own hands in horror. Then, on instinct, he ran._


	2. Chapter 1

**Do you hate me? I kind of hate me right now. It's been like, forever and a half days, and I'm sorry about the one-shot thing, I had to take it down because it was too much and with school starting and I just moved into a new house, everything's been super busy. I started one of the requests, the one about the hockey thing, but I never got to finish it, but after everything settles down, I might finish it and post it. Anyways, I'm terribly sorry about this chapter, it literally doesn't move the story along at all, we're still stuck in the exact same spot, just told in a different point of view. Hopefully, after I post this, I'll have another chapter coming up soon, because if I have to be honest, this chapter, first of all, is extremely short, and sort of unnecessary, because it doesn't contribute much to the overall plot. And it's worse that there was such a great response to the prologue, you lovely unicorns were so nice in the reviews, because now I feel terrible because I've let you down. I've failed you wonderful people, and I so, so, sorry. But I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who followed and favorited and reviewed, and I swear, future chapters are going to be better. I give you express permission to strangle me now.**

 **Also, thank you,** ** _Rwch3l_** **, for helping me even though you didn't actually help, you just watched Netflix while I was writing, but hey, at least you were there for moral support. Don't worry, I still love you though. XD**

 **I really need to get a beta, because there's probably going to be a shit ton of mistakes in here. If you're interested, please PM me, because I kind of desperately need one. I promise not to be annoying...well, I can't guarantee that, but...**

 **Disclaimer: Seriously? Do you think Cassie Clare would give you this crap and call it a chapter? I didn't think so. Need I say any more?**

* * *

It was a rather pleasant day, Magnus mused, with the sun shining and the birds chirping. He was in a wonderful mood, whistling to himself as he swung his bejeweled cane. Canes were quite the fashion statement in France these days, but alas, the little kingdom of Alicante didn't pick up on such things. The people were focused on other activities, like, for instance, farming and baking, and for the women, sewing and weaving. Rather dull, if Magnus were to be honest, but he supposed they had to do what they must to survive. It was quite unfortunate not everyone was born blessed with his gifts with magic, or, for that matter, his taste in clothing. The townspeople wore terribly drab garments, most of them thick and rough, often patched in various spots. And the colors! It was simply insulting, to say the least, when the only colors he saw were blacks and whites and all the shades of gray in between. Brown was very common too, and brown wasn't exactly a flattering color. Here and there, he would see a flash of pink, perhaps a bit of lilac, or, every once in a while, a tad of blue. Those would be the more fortunate people of Alicante. Of course, their gowns and jackets were made of materials slightly more pleasant to the touch. And on occasion, Magnus would spot a magnificent ensemble, complete with enough feathers and sequins to rival his own.

Of course, speaking of richer people, Magnus had arrived at the palace. It wasn't as grand as he'd imagined, but it had a charm to it, a warmth that castles generally lacked. Magnus slipped through the double doors of the entrance unseen, thanks to his glamour. He had come with the purpose of visiting the King—not that Magnus knew him personally, but that was the point. He liked making new acquaintances, and who knows, his relationship with King Lucian might just come in handy someday. Besides, the Queen was a good friend of his, it would only make sense to meet her husband, right? And on the off chance he didn't get to see King Lucian, it wouldn't hurt to pay Jocelyn—the Queen—a visit. He hadn't seen her since her coming-of-age, when she was sixteen. He'd thrown a party in her honor, going out of his way to organize a ball. Now, almost ten years later, he'd heard from someone she had a daughter about five or six years of age. Magnus was never quite fond of babies, but this was Jocelyn's daughter, and he could make an exception.

As Magnus strolled down the long corridors, he smiled to himself, thinking about how Jocelyn's child would look like. Would she be pretty? She must be, for Jocelyn was a beautiful woman herself. Unless Lucian was desperately lacking in looks department, the child surely must be at least decent-looking. Red hair, perhaps, like Jocelyn's. Jocelyn did have the most vibrant hair, a deep scarlet Magnus sometimes found himself jealous of.

As Magnus was rounding a corner, a little boy with a mop of golden curls ran straight into him, causing him to stumble backwards a few steps. Magnus opened his mouth to berate the child for wrinkling his jacket, but when he took a good look at the boy, Magnus's jaw hung open. The boy was covered in blood. And now that he ran into him, Magnus's jacket was stained with blood too.

"What in the name of—" Magnus swore under his breath, running his hands through his hair. He had come to the palace for leisure, to catch up with an old friend, not to deal with a kid who didn't understand why he shouldn't play with sharp things.

"You have to go there," the boy panted, pointing to the direction where he came from. "You have to help her," he tugged on Magnus's arm, pushing him towards the large iron door. Eyeing the boy warily, Magnus approached the door, which led to a set of stone stairs.

"Would care to explain why you are leading me to a place that I am most likely forbidden in?" Magnus arched an eyebrow. The boy just shook his head.

"Just—go down there and help her—" Looking around frantically, he gave Magnus one final push. "I-I have to go," and with that, the boy dashed away. If it weren't for the plush carpeting, the boy's loud footsteps would most likely have attracted dozens of guards by now, but seeing as he remained undetected, the boy ran out what seemed to be a servant's exit. An older man, perhaps in his thirties or late twenties was by the exit, waiting for the boy, but his back was turned, so Magnus couldn't make out the man's face. Magnus contemplated chasing after him. Then again, the boy did say something about someone in need down there. And Magnus was a very kind-hearted person. Well, that's what he liked to think. Should he find out who the boy was? Or should he investigate what was waiting for him at the bottom of these treacherous stairs?

Sighing dramatically, Magnus descended upon the stairs, his curiosity for what lies below finally winning out. The first thing Magnus noticed was the eery silence. His footsteps echoed on the stone, which should have drawn plenty of attention by now. As he reached the last of the steps, Magnus surveyed his surroundings, even more baffled. It was what seemed to be the dungeon, yet there were no guards stationed anywhere. Looking back, he hadn't encountered anyone on his way here, which was uncommon, especially in the dungeons. Even more strange, all the doors to the cells hung ajar, some of them creaking slowly, as if all the occupants had pushed them open in haste and escaped. Magnus crept forward cautiously, his body tense. His slit-pupiled eyes darted around quickly, scanning for any immediate signs of danger. What his eyes rested on made him halt abruptly, his heart skipping a beat. (No, it wasn't an insanely handsome stranger, although Magnus would've preferred that over what lay before him any day.) A girl, probably no older than seven, laid on the floor right outside a cell, in a puddle of her own blood.


End file.
